


Let the stories be told (they can say what they want)

by blackmare, Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Episode: s07e23 Moving On, Gen, Running Away, Travel, fiji, tropical island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmare/pseuds/blackmare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He’s going to be in some bar, you know, that’s the darkest hole in Princeton. And, nope, he’s in Fiji or something.</i>  961 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the stories be told (they can say what they want)

  
**Title:** Let the stories be told (they can say what they want)  
 **Authors:** [](http://nightdog-barks.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://blackmare.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**blackmare**](http://blackmare.dreamwidth.org/)  
 **Characters:** House, various original characters  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Warnings:** No  
 **Spoilers:** Yes, for episode 7.23, "Moving On"  
 **Summary:** _He’s going to be in some bar, you know, that’s the darkest hole in Princeton. And, nope, he’s in Fiji or something._ 961 words.  
 **Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **Author Notes:** This story was actually begun in late May 2011, shortly after the airing of "Moving On." I rediscovered it while looking for something else. :D  
The summary is a quote from the _House_ TV show writer Peter Blake, in [this interview](http://blogcritics.org/digging-into-the-house-season-finale1/) from May 27th, 2011. Title and cut-text are from "Let the Good Times Roll," by The Cars.  
 **Beta:** [](http://pwcorgigirl.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**pwcorgigirl**](http://pwcorgigirl.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://blackmare.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**blackmare**](http://blackmare.dreamwidth.org/)

 

**_Let the stories be told (they can say what they want)_ **

 

His next-door neighbor has a daughter who looks like Rachel.

That is, if Rachel were a couple of years older, Melanesian and fluent in three languages, two of which House doesn't speak.

She peeks around the door jamb and says _"Ni sa yadra"_ before he goes on his morning gimp around the beach. House tries to ignore her, but she usually manages to get in a shy smile before her mother snatches her away.

He's learned the simple stuff -- besides _good morning_ , he now knows how to say _yes_ , _no_ , _good night_ , _I want a beer_ , _where are you going?_ Some of his neighbors refer to him as _lialia_ , and he's learned that means _crazy_.

* * *

The five-star hotel had proved boring after a week. There were only so many glad-handing American couples from Dubuque he could sneer at, and House had reached his limit in three days. He'd started to call Wilson, but hung up before the call had gone through.

He doesn't want to talk to Wilson right now. Besides, what would he say? Hi, Wilson, I'm living in a tiny furnished apartment I got a hotel maid to recommend after I slipped her fifty bucks to convince her I was serious. Hi, Wilson, you told me to let it out, what did you think would happen? Hi, Wilson, the weather's beautiful, wish you were here.

Nah, he can't say any of that.

* * *

The girl's name is Melida. She says it very fast, the Fijian vowels running together like rushing water, and it takes House a while to realize she's saying _My name is Melida what's yours?_

Before House can answer, Melida's mom shows up, her face a mask of thunder, and she pulls Melida away from the _lialia_ man.

Hi, Wilson, I've met a hot chick named Melida.

* * *

Snorkeling, the peacefulness underwater, soothes away the dreams.

Dreams that he hit Cuddy, that Rachel is trapped under his wheels, that Wilson didn't get out of the car.

He turns over on his back. The ocean bears him up, and he floats, the sky above him a great blue bowl. Seagulls whirl overhead, circling the dive boat in hope of a touristy snack tossed their way.

I could drift like this all the way to New Zealand.

He licks his lips, tastes saltwater. The gulls' raucous laughter rings in his ears.

House rolls, frog-kicks to gain depth. The surface recedes, a shimmering blue test pattern, and the cries of the gulls fade to a distant murmur.

* * *

He goes to the chemist on the corner and looks at postcards, rectangles of thin pasteboard with all the same views he can see outside his window -- minus the parking lot. House picks out two, shows them to the chemist, a small man with a cheerful countenance behind the register.

_"E vica?"_ he says.

The chemist smiles. "A dollar thirty-five," he says.

"Great," House answers. "Won't even dent my booze budget."

The chemist's smile wobbles, but he hands House his change without a word -- bronze and steel coins stamped with sailing ships, lizards, fish. No dead presidents here.

* * *

Both postcards are addressed to Wilson.

The back of one reads, _I'm alive._

The other, _I walked into the ocean._ Which might not be the method he'd choose, drowning being lengthy and all, but it gets the idea across. It fits the scene, especially if the scene belongs to one of those old movies Wilson loves, like _A Star Is Born_. He wonders if Melida's ever seen _A Star Is Born_ and spends all of two minutes thinking about it before deciding that she probably has, the way kids everywhere are raised on _The Wizard of Oz_ , SpongeBob SquarePants, and _Scarface_.

Anyway. The postcard's not going to leave Wilson with the image in his head of whatever House would really do. He doesn't know how easy it would be to get a gun here. He hasn't asked yet.

Both cards sit on the little table in his room while he decides which to send, and all the while the ghostly voice of John House mocks his failure to _shit or get off the pot, son._

They sit there for three days while House gimps around the island and drinks, watches porn and jacks off and hates himself, and stops even bothering with the thirdhand metal detector he paid forty dollars for from a guy on the beach. And at the end of three days he takes the old duffel he'd found abandoned near the trash bins, throws a few clothes in and tears up the cards.

When he's finished, the postcard bits are no larger than postage stamps. He drops them into the toilet, flicks the handle, watches them spiral away.

"Answer C," he says. "None of the above."

* * *

He starts to call Wilson again, while he stands outside the airport in the hard midday sun, the only one not moving in this endless flow of people.

The light glares up off the face of his phone, right into his eyes. He stops, two numbers shy of _Hey. I'm coming home._

He doesn't need to say that right now. There'll be plenty of time. Six to eight months most likely, maybe more.

He wonders if this airport has a bar; he doesn't remember much of anything from when he'd arrived. There's just enough left in his pocket for one last martini, if a martini is what he wants. It might be; there's not enough to bother with currency exchange, and he won't be picking up shell necklaces or coconut body butter or a snowglobe with a tiny plastic palm tree inside.

Souvenirs, like postcards, are for trips that you want to _remember_.

 

 

~ fin


End file.
